Scattered in the Wind
by MyOriginalIntent
Summary: What secrets will you take to the grave with you? A story of secrets and dirty linen, H/D slash, PG-13 for a word... because I felt like it.


**Author:** MOI  
**Title:** Scattered In The Wind  
**Rating: **PG-13, for one word.   
**Summary:** What secrets will you take to the grave with you? A story secrets and dirty linen, H/D slash, PG because I felt like it.   
**Author's Notes:** Well, hopefully this one isn't as depressing as my other two so far, Time After Time and Never Again. People die, but the emphasis isn't… really… on the death. You can find the inspiration for this rather disjointed piece of work in my endnotes, at the bottom.   
**Dedication:** This is dedicated to Earth, Pathetic Invader, me3gogi, Azeem, Sailor Moirae and celestinne who reviewed Never Again. I love you all! This is also dedicated to Sydonia, Tara, Lord-Mhoram, Morien Alexander, Trephinia Cealyn, annikatwist, gwen, Anne Phoenix, Laura Beth, SoulSister, Gwen (yes, two gwens… *grin*) Jamie Roberts, Kayla Summers, K. Ashley, auditie, Hippy Flower(Voldie's kid, and Silver Lightning, but especially to ** leopardskinqueen, Lestat, franthephoenix ** and** Intangible Lollipop**, who reviewed both stories twice, and everyone else who e-mails me. I write for you!  
**Disclaimer:** Am I JK Rowling? No? Well, actually I am, and am writing slash on fanfiction.net because even more people would start screaming that Harry Potter is the book of Satan and I'm a witch (in a bad sort of way) if I put it in the books. I need to make a living somehow, don't I? Even though I'm rich as the Queen of England? FYI, Draco and Harry both have secret crushes on each other in their fifth year, and I promise the fifth book is coming out this summer. It's not my fault it takes so long to proofread the book and translate it into all sorts of other languages, is it? So, anyway, don't sue me 'cause I own Harry fucking Potter. Actually, I'm MOI. Who 'me' is, is debatable.  
  
_**Scattered in the Wind  
by MOI  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~**  
  
This is the last will and testament of Harold James Potter as dictated to Reginald Carpenter, Esq. on the 3rd day of May, One Thousand Nine Hundred and Ninety-Nine.   
  
I. Funeral Arrangements  
  
On the day of my funeral, the ceremony will be open to the public. The media is allowed to attend and make a general nuisance of themselves. This is to make people stop crying and get very very annoyed.   
  
It is my will that Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy, attend both the reading of this will and my funeral. I forbid you to bury me unless Draco Malfoy is there, barring his death before mine. Call it a touch of irony.   
  
There is to be a lot of food before and after my funeral. No alcohol. Excess money in my Gringotts bank account is to pay for this._  
  
"We gather here on this day to mourn the passing of Harry Potter, known to many as the Boy Who Lived..." Hermione glared at the preacher. Harry might have been the Boy Who Lived, but he was also Harry... She looked over at Draco Malfoy, standing calmly, alone though hundreds of people surrounded them. Why Harry had ordered that bastard to come, she wouldn't know. Sure, Malfoy had matured over the years, but he was still one of her least favorite people.   
  
"He died in what some now call the Last Stand, against one of the greatest evils of the modern world. Against You-Know-Who." Hermione groaned. _Voldemort! Say his bloody name!_ she thought _he's dead. He's sodding dead. Voldemort can't come back, it's impossible!_ Hermione glanced at Malfoy, who seemed slightly angry. Catching her look, he mouthed very distinctly "Voldemort." Hermione nodded.   
  
"Thanks to Harry Potter, we are safe from Dark wizards for quite a long time. Harry was a remarkable young man, and it is with great sadness that we bid him farewell." The coffin was lowered into the ground by two wizards using their wands. The black drapes contrasted sharply with the Union Jack that lay in prominence on the coffin. Hermione wondered at that.   
  
Wizards and witches stepped forward one by one, in pairs, or in groups, to take a handful of dirt and toss it over the coffin. Finally the funeral came to a close and Hermione walked into the reception hall... and into flashing camera lights. She saw Malfoy out of the corner of her eye, surrounded by reporters. She _thought_ Harry'd made a mistake in making his will public. Ignoring the Daily Prophet Reporter, she edged closer to Malfoy to hear what he was saying.   
  
One reporter, in blue robes and wearing an _International Owls_ pin, got in the first answered question.   
  
"Mr. Malfoy, were you and Harry Potter close?" Hermione bit her lip.   
  
"No." Malfoy answered calmly. Hermione's eyes widened. She'd thought Malfoy smart enough to make up lies for the media. Apparently not.   
  
"Potter and I were never close. We were bitter enemies. And now-" Malfoy's face twisted into a caricature of a smile "I've won." The reporter gasped and Hermione elbowed her way over to Malfoy.   
  
"Excuse us." She said abruptly to the reporters, and dragged Malfoy away. She glared at him fiercely and he looked away.   
  
"How _dare_ you!" she hissed. "Have you no respect for the dead? God, Malfoy, can't you let go of your hatred for Harry for _one fucking minute!?!_" Hermione slapped him hard across the cheek, leaving a dark red mark. Draco looked back at her.   
  
"Show respect for the dead?" he hissed. Hermione was shocked to see tears standing out in the corners of his eyes.   
  
"Show _respect_ for the _dead_. Potter is fucking _dead_ and I'll say anything about him that I want to! And it's not like I wanted to be invited to this fucking party!" Hermione stared coldly back at him. "Funeral, Malfoy. Funeral." Hermione paused. Her voice hardened.   
  
"Malfoy, why are you crying?" she asked, softly, cruelly. He glared at her, an unnoticed tear sliding down his cheek.   
  
"None of your business, Granger." Draco replied. He glared at Hermione for a moment, then ran from the room. Hermione stared after him for a minute before turning her attention to the reporters.   
  
"Yes, that was Draco Malfoy... Yes, Harry and Malfoy were rivals. Bitter enemies, almost. From Day One at Hogwarts... No, I have no idea why Harry made him come... Yes, I'm Hermione Granger. Yes, I am- was- one of Harry's best friends... No, Harry never _did_ have a permanent girlfriend..."   
  
Years later, Whizz Hard Books contacted noted historian and novelist Hermione Granger for a final favor. Although she had announced herself officially retired from writing at the ripe old age of fifty-six and living in Kent, dedicated to raising Crups for the rest of her life, she accepted the task. Partially in repayment for many years of published bestsellers thanks to wonderful publishing house-author relations, but majorly in a last memorial to an old friend, who had died far to young.   
  
The biography hit the shelves of wizarding bookstores everywhere September 17, 2036. It was titled _Scar: An Unwilling Hero. The dedication read 'To Ron, for being the best friend a wife could ask for, to Albus Dumbledore, for names and dates, and to Vernon Dursley, who had to be spelled into revealing Harry's room. And, of course, to Harry, who I hope will forgive the truth.' _Harry Creevey opened the book in excitement, bit dutifully stopping to read the author's note.   
  
_ Dear Reader,   
  
I was one of Harry Potter's best friends before he died thirty-six years ago. I witnessed Harry at his worst, and I saw him at his very best. This is not a news article intended to glorify Harry. He had many, many faults, as you'll discover. This isn't a fairytale. This is the truth. And yet, the truth about Harry is more good than bad, and I am glad to have been that boy's friend. I'll never forget him, and he should never be forgotten.   
  
I felt a little awkward starting this book- how many people end up writing their best friend's biography? It's strange, to say the least. When I had finished the research I needed to write this book, I was more than awkward. I felt as though I had stepped onto what looked like a solid patch of ground, only to discover it to be a sinkhole of immense proportions. In those brief ten years I had known Harry, I had only barely scratched the surface of what lay beneath.   
  
In telling you the truth, I trust you will regard them with the dignity it deserve. A person's name and story are not meant to be dragged through the mud or featured on magazines proclaiming the 'dirty truth.' I am showing you Harry's dirty laundry- don't make fun of it. Harry wasn't that much different from you.   
  
Sincerely,   
Hermione G. Weasley  
  
_ Halfway around the world, a white haired old woman closed the book with a sigh. Truth was, she reflected, a bitter fruit. Her name was Narcissa Malfoy. She laid her head against the cushioned seat and closed her eyes. In her mind, she could see her only son, as she had last seen him on December 4th, 2000, three days after Harry Potter's funeral.   
  
_ He stood before her, white-blond hair hanging in his eyes again. His grey eyes were dark, and she had wondered why he was so upset. He kissed her cheek then pulled away, handing her a large bouquet of flowers.   
  
"Good-bye, Mother," he'd said. "I don't know if I'll ever see you again." Narcissa had been shocked, but had kissed him on the cheek and murmured her hopes that she would see him again soon. He had shaken his head and departed.   
  
Five days later she received a Ministry owl saying her son had died of apparent suicide. She had been mystified.   
  
Well, at least know I know why, _she mused. Her eyes fell to the book's table of contents, listing _Dragon, My Dragon_ as the 27th chapter. She had memorized the first sentences of the chapter . _  
  
Harry had a love life of secluded corners and hidden doors, and he had one true love, which lasted past his death- Draco Malfoy. They were secret lovers from fifth year on. Ron and I never knew.   
  
_ Old secrets now lay exposed, and they were let loose, to be scattered in the wind.   
  
**End Notes:** In the Washington Post, there's an etiquette column they publish in one of the sections, called Miss Manners. One person wrote in asking what you were supposed to do when someone asked what sort of a response you should give when asked how you were and how close you were to the deceased at a funeral. Miss Manners replied, and in passing mentioned she thought it would be ironic if someone said 'No, we weren't close, we were bitter enemies. And now I've won!' Hence, this fic. It didn't work out as well as I'd hoped it would.   
**Random Pleas:** I'm asking this time around for a) a beta-reader (you won't always get to actually beta all my stories, but you'll get to beta most. I'm a bit impatient at times) and b) someone to describe, say, a Gay Pride march or similar. 


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